


Nights So Slow

by jibrailis



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 15:56:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8997310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jibrailis/pseuds/jibrailis
Summary: “Well,” Viktor says helplessly, because it’s all ruined now, “I was going to try and seduce you.”





	

“Come with me to Saint Petersburg,” Viktor says, and Yuuri’s eyelashes blink a long slow lifetime before he tilts his head and says yes.

So then: they move to Saint Petersburg. Viktor keeps looking at Yuuri, searching for signs of a weary heart, but Yuuri’s surprisingly difficult to read when he wants to be. When Viktor mentions Yuuri’s friends and family in Hasetsu on the flight over, Yuuri’s face pinches and his voice goes offended. “I moved to Detroit to train when I was eighteen,” he says, and Viktor snaps his mouth shut. Yuuri spends the rest of the trip carefully reading his inflight magazine and ignoring Viktor. Viktor studies the clouds.

“Sorry,” he says, after, when they land. Viktor’s not good at saying sorry. 

Yuuri takes a deep breath and nods. His hand touches Viktor’s. “If you’re going to make a comeback, you need Yakov,” he says. “And I need—”

Viktor waits for the _you_ , but Yuuri looks off into the distance. “—some food,” he finishes and trots off enthusiastically towards the direction of a sandwich shop. Yuuri is like that a lot. On ice, they’re like Romeo and Juliet, Yuuri flinging himself into Viktor’s arms to the flashes of dozens of cameras. Off-ice, romantic moments slide off Yuuri like a magnet repelled.

This is, after all, a man whose greatest sexual fantasy involves deep-fried pork and whose idea of a proper date outfit is saggy, moth-eaten sweatpants.

Granted, not every date they’ve been on, Yuuri knew it was a date.

Granted, most of the time Viktor’s just been inviting Yuuri over to his room in the bathhouse for late-night movies or showing him interesting skating videos.

(Granted, sometimes the sweatpants dip low on Yuuri’s hips, and then Viktor forgets what he was going to say, while he fumbles with his laptop, and Yuuri’s teeth are white in the dark as he laughs quietly).

All of this is very well and good, but now they’re in Russia, now Viktor’s made the terrifying decision to return to skating, and he keeps thinking about it while pretending to be completely cool, now Yuuri’s falling asleep on his shoulder during the cab ride to Viktor’s condo, now they’re opening the door and Viktor’s faced not so much with home sweet home but a grotto of wet antediluvian horrors. 

“Oh yes,” says his neighbour when Viktor bangs on his door, “some of the pipes flooded yesterday. Didn’t you get the email?”

Viktor most certainly did not get the email. 

Yuuri yawns owlishly and cleans his glasses. “Can we stay in a hotel while it’s being fixed?” And then: “it didn’t need to be four stars,” somewhat bemusedly when Viktor does in fact book them into his favourite hotel in the city. 

“If we must suffer,” Viktor says grandly, “we will suffer like kings.” (He is, after all, Viktor Nikiforov).

He pauses. “You have the room next to me.” He tosses Yuuri the keycard and waits for his reaction.

“Okay,” Yuuri says, “see you in the morning.” He waves goodbye and practically walks into the door, he’s so tired.

Viktor watches him go. The problem with Katsuki Yuuri, he thinks, as he unlocks his own hotel room and drops onto his bed with a sigh, is that he’s an oblivious _cad_. It’s been two months since the Grand Prix finals; Viktor’s been throwing himself at him left, right, and centre; they’re wearing each other’s _rings_ for god’s sake. And yet Yuuri’s never given any indication he’d like Viktor to spend the night, that the thought has crossed his mind, or really that he thinks of Viktor in any physical way at all.

Maybe he doesn’t, Viktor broods. Maybe to Yuuri he’s a good coach, a potential life partner, but as exciting as a living room chair that occasionally gets up and does drunken karaoke. 

A man like Yuuri could have anyone he wants. Maybe there’s a reason he’s only ever kissed Viktor once.

Maybe he’s shy, Viktor reasons. Viktor had him pegged as pretty virginal when they first met. Maybe not _actually_ a virgin, because Viktor’s not stupid, he knows what goes down in figure skating training camps, but someone who hasn’t been with a lot of people in the past. He meant it when he assigned Eros to Yuuri, as a shakeup. 

Which means they’ve actually had a few conversations about this, when Viktor was trying to get Yuuri inspired about his short program choreography. These conversations have been uniformly awkward and incredibly entertaining (for Viktor), where Yuuri’s stammered out the admission that yes, he’s had those thoughts about people in the past, not just katsudon, but no, he’s not going to name names for Viktor’s amusement.

Maybe he’s still hung up on Yuuko, Viktor thinks.

Maybe _people_ doesn’t include Viktor. Maybe he’s not into Viktor’s outrageous flirtations. Maybe he’s just being nice.

Maybe, Viktor thinks glumly, he's only sexually attractive to Yuuri in the transformative haze of total drunkenness, and now that Yuuri’s sober he can see clearly Viktor’s many flaws. Not limited to heavy snoring, forgetting to turn on the bathroom fan after he’s taken a hot shower, coughing on people when he’s had a cold, wearing plaid with polka dots, and trying to hit the high note in Mariah Carey songs. Also he dings a lot of stationary objects when he drives. Also sometimes Viktor’s really sweaty for no reason.

 _God_ , Viktor wails mentally, clutching at his own face, _I’m a trash bin._

But a trash bin who loves Katsuki Yuuri, and he won’t go down without swinging.

 

:::

 

A great formative part of Viktor’s life was sneaking into his mother’s room and reading her romance novels. This explains 98% of his psychological development as an adult as well as his seduction moves.

“Yuuri,” he says, once Yuuri’s opened his door. Viktor’s conveniently failed to button three-fourths of his silk shirt. His nipples are showing and they’re shiny (he oiled them himself). “Would you care to join me for dinner tonight?”

“Yeah, sure,” says Yuuri. 

Viktor leans against the doorway and leers.

Yuuri looks confused. “Did you want to eat right now? Because it’s only—” he looks at his watch, “—three o’clock. Also I have Phichit on Skype? Sorry.” He smiles apologetically.

“Oh, that’s fine,” says Viktor, sweating through his silk shirt. “Hi Phichit!”

Yuuri gently closes the door behind him.

Okay, okay, well he’ll consider it a success. Yuuri wants to go for dinner with him, which means Viktor will have a chance to take him out to the fanciest restaurant he can get reservations to, wine and dine him, make him laugh, and pull out _all_ the moves. Viktor’s got more moves than twelve-year-olds have Pokemon. _Watch out, Yuuri,_ he thinks, heading back to his own room to get ready, _I’m gonna squash your heart like a cement mixer_.

He texts Yuuri. _let’s meet up at six ♥♥♥_

(*ﾉ▽ﾉ), says Yuuri.

Viktor googles _subtextual meaning of two wavy arms and an upside down triangle_.

Viktor reoils his nipples. Agonizes about how to do his hair — soft and tousled, or slicked back like some hard-eyed businessman who wants to take Yuuri to his hotel room and bend him over his knee (he goes with the former, he doesn’t want scare Yuuri with his own deeply vivid and very specific fantasies). He checks his reservations four more times, each time asking a series of increasingly complex questions about the quality of the food and the ambience of the restaurant (“how many couples would you say have gotten married after eating there?”) until the maître d' starts expressing revenge fantasies.

Six o’clock rolls around. Viktor knocks on Yuuri’s door.

No answer.

He knocks again.

No answer.

 _I’m going to die alone with my five cats and a hamster_ , Viktor thinks. He pulls out his phone. 

_where are you???_ he texts. Maybe Yuuri’s gone to buy more toothpaste from the drugstore. He did mention running low, and he doesn't like the kind Viktor uses, claims it hurts his gums. Yuuri's weirdly obsessed with his teeth, like he's got the soul of a dentist trapped in a figure skater body.

No reply to the text either, ten minutes later, from Yuuri ‘my phone is my fifth limb.’ Viktor starts getting genuinely worried. He wanders down to the lobby to see if maybe Yuuri decided to wait for him there. Pokes his head into the hotel restaurants in case Yuuri thought that was where they were eating. Checks the gym, the library, the business centre, and the sauna before taking the elevator to the infinity pool on the roof.

“Yuuri,” he says in relief. Yuuri looks up from where he’s chest-deep in the water, arms on the ledge, staring out at the night sky. There’s no starlight, but there’s city-light pricked through the darkness like little wounds. Yuuri blinks at Viktor’s arrival. There’s no one else by the pool.

“Hi,” he says, his voice syrupy, like he’s been woken from a nap. “Were you looking for me?”

“It’s six o’clock,” Viktor says. 

Yuuri takes in Viktor’s clothes, his hair, his unimpressed expression. His own face falls. “Oh! Oh no! I completely lost track of time.” He splashes over to the edge of the pool where he checks his phone. “I’m so, so sorry! I can’t believe I did that. And you’re so — nicely dressed too!”

“I am, aren’t I?” Viktor says, coming over. 

“Did you make reservations?” Yuuri asks hesitantly.

“Yeah.”

“Is it too late to keep them?”

“I think so,” Viktor says. “It’s a very fancy place. The time it’d take to blow-dry your hair—” he waves, and Yuuri looks crestfallen.

“I’m sorry,” he says, biting his lip. 

Viktor hates that look on him. “No, no, don’t be,” he says cheerfully. “We can do it another night, yes? I’ll call them back and reschedule.” He won’t, because he’s sure the maître d' will rip him a new one. “It’s honestly alright!” he says to a panicking Yuuri. “Are you hungry? We can still get food.” He eyes the pool. “What were you doing in here anyway?”

“It's really nice up here,” Yuuri replies. "I feel like — like I can see the whole city.”

Viktor’s eyes narrow. “You sound like you were sleeping. You can’t sleep in the pool! You’ll drown!”

“I wasn’t _sleeping_ ,” Yuuri hurries to say. “I guess I was just, um, kind of lost in my own head.”

“Mm,” Viktor says. He starts taking his socks off, so he can stick his feet in the pool. “What about? Tell meeeee.”

“I was thinking,” Yuuri says slowly, sinking deeper into the water, a little more relaxed, more at ease. He looks good in the water, Viktor thinks, a dark sleek shape with his wet hair plastered to his face. “I spent this entire year thinking I was going to retire. I had plans for what to do next, until you ruined them.”

“What sort of plans?” Viktor dips his toes in.

“I was going to follow you to Russia,” Yuuri says.

“You already did that,” Viktor points out. 

“I was going to follow you to Russia and help you restart your skating career,” Yuuri repeats, louder. “I was going to plead my case and be your, I dunno, assistant trainer or something. I was going to make you get up early every morning for a run. Criticize your every quad. Write up a nutrition plan and make you eat supergrains ten times a day.” He smiles, slightly. “You’d have been sorry you ever met me.”

Viktor tugs off his shirt. “You can still do all of that.” He puts his hands on his hips. “It seems to me that I didn’t ruin anything. You liar.”

Yuuri’s laugh always skews halfway into a giggle. Viktor plans to hear it when he’s eighty. 

“You know what I could go for right now?” Yuuri says. “Package ramen. All the MSG you can eat. What d’you say? Before we’re back to training. I want the spicy shrimp kind.”

Viktor looks up at the sky for divine help. “Of all the things I wanted to do tonight,” he says, “package ramen wasn’t anywhere on that list.” He doesn’t even think about it until he says it, but Yuuri’s gone quiet. Yuuri’s often quiet, content to let Viktor chatter on about useless shit, but this is a special brand of quiet. Yuuri’s surprised.

“What _did_ you want to do tonight?” he asks.

“Well,” Viktor says helplessly, because it’s all ruined now, “I was going to try and seduce you.” He adds, quickly, “Or see if you wanted to be seduced! If it was something you might — ah, want.”

Viktor doesn’t ruin things so much as take them in his hands and drop them fifty stories to the ground. He closes his eyes to give Yuuri a moment to say — well, whatever Yuuri is going to say. If he’s going to let Viktor down gently, if he’s going to have pity on his face, pity because Viktor wants him so badly, it’s kind of pathetic, and surely Yuuri once idolized Viktor for his strength. But when Viktor opens his eyes, Yuuri’s watching him. He’s still in the pool, they’re entirely alone, and he’s watching him.

“Okay,” Yuuri says. “I mean, it’s not too late, right? For, um, that.”

“Uh,” Viktor says suavely.

Yuuri’s smile sneaks across his face. It’s gone, though, as soon as it appears. He retreats a few steps until his back bangs the wall of the infinity pool where it seemingly spills out into the sky. So much glass, Viktor thinks, and Yuuri’s pale moon-drenched skin, his hair pulled into a widow's peak, his cheekbones, the solid dip of his muscles. He looks like every beautiful boy in every magazine young Viktor ever took home and read under the covers, dreaming. Viktor’s mouth dries.

There’s no one around. He finishes wrangling his shirt. He takes off his pants, strips down to his underwear. He slides into the pool and swims towards Yuuri, who’s staring at him, dreamy-eyed. 

_Please don’t let me fuck this up,_ Viktor thinks.

When Viktor’s close enough, Yuuri winds one hand around the back of Viktor’s neck and pulls him in that last insurmountable distance. The water is cold but Yuuri’s hand is a sear of fire, and Viktor shudders. Yuuri dunks him into the water.

“Hey! Hey!” Viktor sputters when he thrashes to the surface, splashing everywhere. He sees, through the wet trail of his bangs, a brief sliver of Yuuri’s smile, and then Yuuri kisses him. 

A revelation, Katsuki Yuuri’s mouth.

Viktor gasps into the kiss. He lets Yuuri grasp his chin and fit their mouths together, kissing him until Viktor’s head feels like a soft, bruised thing, a ripened piece of fruit. Yuuri’s not wearing his glasses, and this close his eyes are dark and wide, his lashes inky and impossibly thick, wet where they lie against Viktor’s face. Viktor kisses back until he can taste Yuuri on the backs of his teeth, until he’s panting against Yuuri’s lips like there’s not enough air, and still he wants more. He lets Yuuri lick his way into his mouth, trembling open at the first shy press of Yuuri’s tongue.

“You’re not going to cry on me, are you?” Yuuri asks, and Viktor has a moment to opine over what a _shithead_ he’s chosen to chain himself to, but then Yuuri’s kissing him again, firm and deep. 

Viktor throws caution into the dumpster and hooks one leg around Yuuri’s waist. The water sloshes around them. Yuuri is unprepared for Viktor’s weight and stumbles into the wall, but Viktor just follows him, pressing Yuuri to the glass and kissing him above the swift-beating city. Yuuri makes a sound that travels express to Viktor’s cock. 

“Is this okay?” Viktor asks, kissing him. “Is it—”

“Yeah, it’s okay.” Yuuri’s head bobs in agreement. He groans into Viktor’s kiss. “It’s — I want—” he seems unable to finish that sentence, but goes for Viktor again, and what Yuuri wants, evidently, is to make out with Viktor for as long as he can. Which they do, kissing without end, without thought, with Viktor pressed up against Yuuri in a slow, lazy grind. The pool no longer feels cold.

It’s another world, on the roof of the hotel, in the water. Viktor feels dizzy with the heat of Yuuri’s bare skin against his, the sweetness of his mouth, the autumnal fire of his blush where his face is cupped in Viktor’s hands. Yuuri’s nervous, Viktor can hear this in the skitter of his breath, the push of his pulse in his wrists, but Yuuri’s a brave man. He pushes back against Viktor and moves his hips experimentally.

“Yeah,” Viktor croaks, “like that.” He has to stop for breath, and he pants it out with his face buried in Yuuri’s neck. He grinds a little more forcefully, and can hear the stutter in Yuuri’s voice as he takes it.

“I think,” Yuuri says, and god, his voice sounds ruined, “maybe we shouldn’t do this here anymore.”

“Uh,” Viktor lifts his head and remembers where they are. “Ah.” He forces his throat to work. “Yes,” he manages.

They’re two dripping messes on their way back to their hotel rooms. Yuuri has a towel and slippers. Viktor does not. When he catches sight of himself in the elevator mirror, with his pants hastily pulled on and his shirt hanging off his wet shoulders, he looks exactly like what he is: a man dressed for a nice dinner who got trounced in a pool by his horny boyfriend. He chances a glance at Yuuri, who’s staring straight ahead, face a burnished red. If someone else comes onto the elevator, Yuuri might actually burst.

No one, thank god, joins them. Viktor unlocks his hotel room clumsily; it takes three tries. 

“Do you, ah, want a drink?” he asks. He gestures aimlessly at the minibar. Sometimes, when he brings people over, they need a little booze beforehand.

“No,” says Yuuri, and leads him to the bed. They kiss there for a long time too, Yuuri stretched out over Viktor, biting increasingly daring kisses into his neck. 

“Do you want to—” Viktor arches into him. “Do you want to fuck me?”

Yuuri’s head snaps up. His dick jumps in his soaked swimming shorts; Viktor can feel the hot pressure of it. “Yes,” he says, “if you’re sure.” He looks askance. “I’ve never. Before. With, ah, anyone.” Viktor can see the anxiety start to rise, the way Yuuri fights for breath.

“I’ll show you,” Viktor says, gentle hand on Yuuri’s thigh, and he does. He shows Yuuri how to slick his fingers up with lube from Viktor’s carry-on, how to spread Viktor’s knees apart and press the first finger into him, bit by bit, letting Viktor adjust. He shows Yuuri how to move his finger, just so, so that Viktor’s hole clings around it, and then how to add a second finger, and a third, scissoring Viktor to be ready for Yuuri’s cock.

“You’re really tight,” Yuuri says in amazement, bitten out like he hadn’t meant for Viktor to hear. He ducks his head in between Viktor’s legs and licks where his fingers are holding Viktor open. Viktor jerks in surprise, and lets out a languid moan. 

“I mean,” Yuuri says, half embarrassed, half proud. “I do watch porn.”

Viktor touches his hair. “How am I going to survive you?” he asks. 

The answer is: he doesn’t. He’s overwhelmed by the first careful press of Yuuri’s cock, the way Yuuri’s arms tremble as he tries to hold himself still, tries to go slow as he pushes into Viktor’s body. By now Viktor’s soaking wet with lube, sloppy and a disaster on the sheets; his own cock dribbles precome, thick and white, onto his stomach. It’s easy for Yuuri to fuck into him, he’s so loose from Yuuri’s fingers, and Viktor closes his eyes, it’s so good. 

Yuuri starts out slowly. Viktor squirms under him and begs for more. “I won’t break,” he promises. “You can put some back into it — please, _oh_.” He shudders with pleasure at a particularly well-aimed thrust.

“Nggh,” Yuuri says, sounding anguished, flushed over his shoulders to the hairs of his chest. 

Yuuri fucks like an athlete, like someone who’s spent years gaining perfect control over his own body. Viktor claws the sheets and tries not to scream. What comes out of his mouth must be pure babble instead — tender compliments, and bits of Russian, and Yuuri’s name, until Viktor comes embarrassingly early, back bending, toes curling, shooting all over himself and onto Yuuri too.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he wails.

Yuuri pauses and looks down at Viktor’s come on his belly. Blushes, but keeps on thrusting, nailing Viktor’s overworked prostate perfectly each time. His arms give out, and he drops his weight onto Viktor. Their legs tangle. He mouths Viktor’s hair mindlessly as his hips keep snapping, and tired pleasure zings up Viktor’s spine. Yuuri is very, very good at this. 

Sweat slaps their bodies together, and Viktor thinks of how sore he’ll be tomorrow, how he’ll have to let Yuuri know that every time he winces to sit down, he’s the reason why. Yuuri keeps shoving into him, his face screwed up into something like pain, and something like want. His rhythm grows frantic and erratic. He's never done this before, he said, but he's going to do it now, he'll cream Viktor up good. Viktor wants it today, tomorrow, every day that he can get out of him. Viktor moans. He's tightening his hold on Yuuri’s hair, digging his nails into Yuuri’s scalp, and Yuuri makes a quiet sound, and comes, shaking to pieces. _Oh_ , he says. Then: _Viktor_.

 

:::

 

“I wasn’t sure,” Yuuri says sleepily, stealing most of the covers, “why you only ever kissed me the once. And then you didn’t seem to — um, want to do it again?”

Viktor raises himself up on one elbow. “Are you kidding me?”

“I guess I was wrong then?” Yuuri’s smiling. Not the small smile he gives sometimes when he’s pleased, or the nervous one he wears when there are cameras in his face. No, this smile makes him look rather goofy, like he doesn’t know he’s not supposed to look this way in front of other people. Viktor swallows. 

“I oiled my nipples for you,” he says, “and you didn’t even notice.”

“Forgive me,” Yuuri says with a straight face.

Viktor drops a kiss on his cheek. “Okay,” he says.  
  
  
  



End file.
